They Tried To Get Me-i

Except The Christ Be Born Again Tonight In Dreams Of All Men, Saints And Sons Of Shame, The World Will Never See His Kingdom Bright.

The Sun Is A Huntress Young, The Sun Is A Red, Red Joy, The Sun Is An Indian Girl, Of The Tribe Of The Illinois. The Sun Is A Smouldering Fire, That Creeps Through The High Gray Plain, And Leaves Not A Bush Of Cloud To Blossom With Flowers Of Rain. The Sun Is A Wounded Deer, That Treads Pale Grass In The Skies, Shaking His Golden Horns, Flashing His Baleful Eyes. The Sun Is An Eagle Old, There In The Windless West. Atop Of The Spirit-cliffs He Builds Him A Crimson Nest.

Oh, I Have Walked In Kansas Through Many A Harvest Field, And Piled The Sheaves Of Glory There And Down The Wild Rows Reeled: Each Sheaf A Little Yellow Sun, A Heap Of Hot-rayed Gold; Each Binder Like Creation's Hand To Mold Suns, As Of Old.

Let Not Young Souls Be Smothered Out Before They Do Quaint Deeds And Fully Flaunt Their Pride.

This Is The Sin Against The Holy Ghost: - To Speak Of Bloody Power As Right Divine, And Call On God To Guard Each Vile Chief's House, And For Such Chiefs, Turn Men To Wolves And Swine.